


A Long, Long Way

by sangi



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-24
Updated: 2007-11-24
Packaged: 2018-03-13 17:07:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3389585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangi/pseuds/sangi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She holds up a hand, motioning him to speak no more. “Here, we are all victims of war.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long, Long Way

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2007, posted here again for archival purposes.

1\. _so they say…_

“It’s been awhile since we’ve seen you around here, Song.” The woman states, an almost-question, brows furrowed slightly at the vertex between them. She’s smiling, though, her polite ‘but I’m also asking about things I shouldn’t’ smile. Song has known this woman for what seems like a lifetime, and which may actually feel like more, so she has  become used to the prodding and probing by now.

So she smiles back. “Everything’s fine,” she picks up a tomato and inspects it carefully, “just picking up the pieces after the monsoon.” 

The woman looks her over carefully. “Well, if you say so.” She smiles a more honest smile than the one before. “And what a monsoon it was!”

As the lady gushes on, Song doesn’t really listen. But somewhere near the end of the rant she hears something of interest:

“- and do you know what they say? They say that only a few months ago some handsome boy stayed with your family for a bit!” She nudges Song with her elbow. “Well, is it true?”

She weighs the consequences: and so Song’s brows furrow, much mirroring the lady’s expression from before. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

* * *

 

2\. _don quixote; candide_

“Mother? Are you home?” She calls out into the empty-seeming house, a basket of fresh fruits and vegetables tucked neatly under one arm. “Guess she’s not,” she muses, setting down the basket on the table in their kitchen before heading out to the herb garden in back, planning to pick out the weeds, but a sight she isn’t expecting greets her.

It’s her ‘new’ ostrich horse, Popo. “Popo, what are you doing out here? You’re supposed to be in the stables!” She slaps the ostrich horse on the side and it doesn’t scurry away; it doesn’t even move from its spot as it continues to chew upon the weeds. _At least he’s doing something useful_ , she thinks.

And then Song sighs and lays back on the soft dirt of the garden, not caring whether she ruins her shirt or not.

“You’ve got to be optimistic,” she tells Popo, as if he can understand.

* * *

 

3\. _it’s all a dream_

“I’m home, Song!” She can hear her mother’s voice from the entrance area, while she is currently in the kitchen, meticulously slicing tomatoes (and watching Popo eat the weeds from the garden). Song smiles as her mother’s footsteps come closer, and puts the knife down and wipes her hands on a stray towel before turning around to say hello.

When her mother comes in, she’s sweat-soaked. Song frowns at her and quietly questions what’s wrong.

“Well, for one, it’s humid outside,” the tinkling laugh of her mother, “and at the hospital, I worked a double shift because Sari – you know Sari, right? – well, she went into labor and there were…” she trails off uncertainly, eyes lost in the distance. Song patiently waits (this happens often). After a minute, she finishes the sentence she began: “…complications.”

Song smiles, the kind of smile you smile when you are nervous and really have nothing else to say. “Will everything be alright?” She asks, turning back around to the awaiting vegetables. She raises the knife, but doesn’t let it fall, as she waits for a response.

A pregnant pause.

“For now,” her mother says.

* * *

 

4\. _it’s not going to happen_

“I wish the rains would come back,” her mother says wistfully, staring out into the open sky. Song, in turn, wishes: _I wish that boy (with the scar) would come back_.

So they both stare out at the plains, and listen to Popo make funny noises as he pecks at the ground near them. She can feel the soft whisper of a light breeze along her cheeks, and the wispy grass underneath her bare feet; smell the humid, sticky air, and taste it too; she can hear her mother’s soft breathing next to her.

Song looks closely at the sky, and then turns slowly to look at her ostrich horse Popo. She frowns.

“I don’t think so, mother,” she replies.

* * *

 

5\. _once upon a time_

“You know, Song,” her mother says, eyes distractedly staring off into the distance, “I never got to ask you where Popo came from,” her eyes lazily turn to look at her daughter, one eyebrow raised.

Song, who was chewing on some vegetable or other, abruptly stops and her eyes unintentionally widen.

“I mean,” but her mother continues on, looking away from her daughter again, “After our last ostrich horse mysteriously disappears – right after that old man and dashing young boy disappeared… wait, now that I think about it…” she stops, a confused look present on her face, as if she’s piecing together something; after a moment, she shakes her head.

“Nevermind. Anyways, our old ostrich horse disappeared – once upon a time, when I was your age, you know, you could leave an ostrich horse untethered and not worry about it disappearing in the middle of the night!”

At about this point, Song is desperately trying not to choke (in vain) on the food in her mouth.

Her mother notices, breaks off her speech, and pounds her daughter lightly on the back. “You okay, dear?” At the forceful nodding of Song, she continues on.

“And so I never got to ask you where Popo came from.” She smiles, looking at the stubborn ostrich horse out in the field. “He’s a rascal, that one.”

There is a long pause.

“So, Song? Where is Popo from?” Is it just Song, or do her questions seem to have some substance behind them.

But she smiles, the fake smile that she saves for special occasions like this, and unerringly says: “No idea, mother. He just showed up.” She looks pensive for a moment. “Maybe,” she continues, “He just wandered in that rainy night.”

* * *

 

6\. _clouded_

“Mr. Mushi?” She sounds incredulous. “That can’t be you, can it?”

“It is, my dear girl. I’m sorry to be a bother, but - ” the old man lifts his arm to show where a red streak of blood is soaking through his shirt.

Song lets him inside, hurriedly rushing him into the kitchen, where her mother sees the problem and promptly starting to warm water over the stove.

They sit like this, Song and her mother bandaging and treating Iroh’s wounds, and when they finish, all is silent. And then Song’s mother tries to make small conversation:

“It’s very humid this evening. I can still see some of the clouds in the sky,” she says, glancing quickly to the kitchen window. “Maybe it will rain?” It’s a question that she says, not a statement.

“It won’t,” Song says, but now she’s smiling.

Iroh clears his throat. “They are coming,” he says solemnly, and both Song and her mother know what he means. “You should leave,” he advises them. There’s something in his eyes that Song can’t quite describe; something between a maybe and a what if. But then it’s gone, and she feels herself wanting to see again what it was.

As her daughter rushes off to pack, Song’s mother looks carefully at the old man. “Would you… like to go with us?” The words are very, very hesitant and hang uncertainly in the air for a moment before crashing down.

‘Mr. Mushi’ nods his head slowly, but then looks ashamed for a moment. “Though I’m afraid,” he says, “that I’m not who you think I am.” 

She holds up a hand, motioning him to speak no more. “Here, we are all victims of war.”

* * *

 

7\. _wake up_

“How much farther?” Her mother asks, standing on tiptoes, looking over the distant horizon.

“We’re refugees, now, mother,” Song laughs, and it’s not as bitter as you’d think.

Her mother laughs, too. The air is sticky and humid, even though the summer rains have been gone for almost three weeks, and she can hear an amused Iroh laughing in the background also. Song sends them her glance. 

“Still,” her mother continues, “How much farther?” She, still standing on the tips of her toes, asks; she visors her eyes with her hand, as if she could really see so far.

There is a long pause, and she can now hear the exhausted old man snoring.

She pulls on the reins. “Come, Popo. Wake up, Mr. Mushi,” she says, shaking the old man awake. Her mother impatiently repeats her question, the amusement still in her voice.

Song follows her idea and shades her eyes. Slowly, the words come out:

“A long, long way.”


End file.
